


Conference

by Cowboy_Sneep_Dip



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Casual Sex, Clothed Sex, Drinking, F/F, Inappropriate Workplace Conduct, Light Dom/sub, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Trans Female Character, Trans My Unit | Byleth, background catherine/shamir - Freeform, listen she's got a riding crop what do you want from me, well sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-10
Updated: 2019-10-10
Packaged: 2020-12-07 19:34:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20981228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cowboy_Sneep_Dip/pseuds/Cowboy_Sneep_Dip
Summary: After a long day of boring work, sometimes the only thing Manuela wants to do is kick back, take off her coat, and get to know her mysterious new coworker.





	Conference

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy, y'all! Got a fun one for you this time. Thanks to @Decker on Ao3 for commissioning me!

Byleth hates meetings.

Between her hesitance to speak and her inexperience with both teaching and leadership, she always feels mildly put out by faculty meetings - she sits at the end of the long table in the faculty room, shuffles her papers idly, and tries to slide a D+ certification ranking under her stack of papers. 

Beside her, Manuela chuckles. “Don’t worry about that.”

Byleth purses her lips. “Don’t grades reflect on us poorly, as instructors?” 

Manuela laughs and reaches under the folds of her cloak, fumbling for something. “It’s still early in the year, that’s expected.” She withdraws a flask from her cloak and takes a sip.

Across the table, Catherine makes eye contact, raises an eyebrow, and reaches into her own gear. 

“Does everyone bring flasks?” Byleth turns to the side.

Manuela laughs again, her voice high and clear. A performer’s laugh. “Of course not, but it’s the only way to bear three hours of Seteth’s expense reports and application reviews.”

As if summoned by his name, the door to the conference room opens and Seteth pushes through, arms loaded down with a bundle of papers, documents and scrolls.

Catherine slyly lifts her flask in a mock toast to Manuela before sneaking a drink as Seteth walks behind her. 

“I hope you’ll excuse my tardiness,” he says, his voice flat and unenthused. “I was assisting Flayn with something.”

“Something at the fishing pond?” Catherine asks smugly, and Shamir, at her side, swats her lightly. 

Seteth drops his armful of papers onto the far end of of the table and sighs. “Yes, Ser Catherine. Again, your astuteness knows no bounds.”

“You seem tired, Seteth,” Manuela says, leaning forward on her desk. “Why don’t we postpone the monthly meeting until a day when you’re feeling better?” 

He sighs again, pulls out his chair, and sits. “I know none of you enjoy these meetings, but they need to be done.” He shuffles his pile of papers. “Roll call. Professor Hanneman?” 

“Present,” Hanneman says, without looking up. His face is buried in work - Byleth cranes her neck to see, but can’t discern if it’s personal or professional. 

“Ser Shamir?” 

“Present.”

“Ser Catherine?”

Catherine almost spits a mouthful of something as she drops her flask below the table. “Here,” she coughs. 

“Professor Manuela?” 

“Present.” 

“Professor...Byleth?”

Byleth nods, trying to give an affirmative noise that gets caught in her throat. What comes out is enough for Seteth, and he continues down the roster while Byleth hunches down in her chair, somewhere between embarrassed and grateful her time has passed. She knows she’ll have to speak up at some point, to give her class report, and she’s dreading every second of it. For a brief moment, she’s jealous of Catherine, across the table - her easy laugh, her inattention to the proceedings around her, her hand more occupied with resting on Shamir’s leg than with sorting her paperwork. 

There’s a tap on Byleth’s shoulder, and Manuela slides her flask across the table. “You need to loosen up a bit. You’ll never make it through the whole thing if you’re so tense.” 

Byleth hesitates in picking up the drink. It smells like pure alcohol, the sort of thing Byleth is used to smelling in medical tents in merc camps. She sniffs, takes a nervous sip, and almost coughs it up.

“Something to contribute, professor?” Seteth asks from the end of the table.

Byleth blushes and shakes her hand, waving off the question before surreptitiously sliding Manuela’s flask back to her. There’s a round of soft chuckles from their end of the table.

As the meeting drags on, Byleth gets the distinct feeling that the Garreg Mach Monastery staff is divided into two categories; those closest to Seteth, the staff with the most vested interest in participation, progress, advancement - Ser Alois, Professor Hanneman, Flayn - Byleth frowns. What is Flayn doing at a staff meeting? 

And then, at the other end of the table - the stragglers, the slackers. Shamir giving a dead-eyed stare at the center of the table, mind obviously elsewhere; Catherine, stacking pencils on her paperwork, and Manuela, slowly slipping deeper in her chair as time wears on. Byleth isn’t quite sure how she ended up at this end of the table, but if it means less talking on her end, she’s quite fine with it. 

Seteth is going over expense reports when some monastery staff come in, bringing food from the mess hall. Byleth picks nervously at a bowl crackers while Manuela voraciously devours a plate of food at her side.

Byleth hates meetings. 

Surely her time could be better spent training, or teaching, or anything but this. The clock ticks on, interminable, marching in endless revolutions. Time is nothing, in this room. 

Byleth’s mind wanders, her head resting in her palm as she leans on her elbow, staring around the table, considering the dynamic between the staff members. Alois is joyful, exuberant, even after such a long meeting. Catherine is asleep outright, slumped in her chair and snoring until Shamir thumps her on the arm, causing her to jolt upright and cough. 

Byleth gaze wanders to Manuela, her flushed cheeks and bright smile, the little beauty mark under her eye. She feels her own face flush warm when Manuela laughs performatively at one of Alois’ jokes. She catches Byleth staring and flashes her a smile. Her lips are bright and painted, and Byleth wonders what lipstick tastes like. 

“Professor Byleth?” Seteth’s voice cuts through her haze of distraction. “Your class report?” 

“Ah,” Byleth stands up, picking up her papers. Her tongue lays thick in her mouth, fumbling for muscles to activate which haven’t seen use in hours. “I, um,” she shuffles her papers around, trying to find something to start with. From her standing position, she can see Manuela’s easy, amused smile. She can see lower, down the deep V of her shirt. Byleth sweats.

“Um, yes, the report.” Byleth clears her throat, trying to push the image of Manuela’s cleavage from her mind. She’s glad that the table is high enough to cover any evidence of her arousal.

Byleth hates meetings.

-

The sun has set somewhere beyond the stained-glass windows by the time the meeting finishes up. Byleth is thankful it’s a quarterly affair, because goddess almighty she’s ready for anything else. The room is dim, lit with torches rather than sunlight, and Seteth stands, bows, and gathers up his work. 

“Thank Sieros,” Catherine groans, her legs splayed out on top of the table. She pushes her chair back, lowers her feet to the floor, and gets to her wobbling, unsteady feet. “Hey, partner, dinner?” 

Shamir gets to her feet and picks up Catherine’s paperwork as well as her own. 

Half out of concern and half to steal another glance, Byleth shuffles her papers and turns to check on Manuela, who seems to be holding onto the table like a life raft bobbing in the sea. Byleth laughs. 

“A bit too much to drink?” she teases.

“I’m...fine,” Manuela insists, pushing herself up off the table. “I’m…”

Byleth sighs.

“Perhaps you should take her to the infirmary,” offers Hanneman as he passes. “Let her sleep it off.”

“Oh, I’m fine, you big worrywart,” Manuela says, pressing a finger to his chest. “I’m perfectly fine.” 

Hanneman glances at Byleth and raises an eyebrow, and Byleth has  _ no _ idea what that’s supposed to mean.

Maybe the infirmary is a good choice.

“Okay,” she says quietly. “Lets get you some water and some rest.” 

Manuela hiccups as Byleth slings her arm behind her shoulders. 

Her skin is hot to the touch, a flush of alcohol or the ambient temperature of the building Byleth isn’t quite sure, but she doesn’t let her hand linger, instead switching to prop her up by the heavy fabric of her white cloak. She helps walk her down the hallway, towards the stairs.

“You know, professor,” Manuela says, her words brimming with soothing curiosity. “You’re quite the...the tall drink of water.”

Byleth frowns and doesn’t say anything.

“See, that’s what I can’t quite get about you,” Manuela continues, her voice wavering. “You’re so…” she hiccups. “Mysterious.” 

Byleth says nothing, and Manuela reaches up to swipe a finger at her nose. 

“See? You’re so c-cute.”

Byleth’s face flushes. She doesn’t trust herself to say anything, so she doesn’t. She isn’t sure if Manuela is light for her size or just that Byleth is unused to carrying people - usually her interactions are limited to fighting or teaching, and the latter only recently. She hefts Manuela down some stairs and they emerge from the main building of the monastery into the cool moonlight. 

It’s a breezy night, and the wind dries the sweat that’s accumulated on Byleth’s brow. She stops to rest Manuela on a stone planter and sits with her while she fights off a bout of nausea.

“You really are a strange one,” Manuela says, cocking her head to the side. “Hanneman says you don’t even know your own age.”

Byleth shakes her head. 

“What about your name? You know that, right?” 

“I’m called Byleth,” Byleth says.

Manuela laughs. “‘You’re called’? So you don’t know?”

“Isn’t that what a name is?” 

Manuela furrows her brow and mulls over the statement. “An odd one,” she says, mostly to the night air. 

Byleth leans back on her hands and watches the coming and going of a few stray students. It’s easy to tell which of them are coming back from training, with wooden weapons at their sides and sweat staining their uniforms, or students coming back from the dining hall, or the library, with books slung under the arms and bags under their eyes. 

It’s a strange life, that of a professor. 

A hand comes to rest on Byleth’s as Manuela leans back and inadvertently places her hand over hers. 

“Ah,” Byleth sits up, blushing. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? What for?” Manuela asks. 

Byleth feels flushed and sweaty. “We...we should get you to the infirmary, huh.”

“Oh, because of what Hanneman said? Don’t listen to that old fool, he wouldn’t know.” 

“I suppose not.”

“Unless…” Manuela lifts an eyebrow. “Perhaps we could make a quick stop there. Just to be safe.”

Byleth stands up and faces away, trying to hide her furious blush. “Um, yes, that might be good.” 

Manuela doesn’t need help walking, anymore, and even if she did Byleth certainly wouldn’t indulge her - not with her ruddy blushing cheeks and her clammy hands. Manuela hums a tune as they walk, something Byleth’s can’t identify. Snatches of words slip into her humming, muttered couplets about some great hero.

“What song is that?” Byleth asks, more to get her mind off other things than anything else.

“You know, Byleth, you’re quite handsome,” Manuela says, ignoring the question. 

Byleth’s eyes widen. “Ah. Thank you.” 

They stop at the doors to the infirmary before Manuela pushes her way inside. It’s dark in the infirmary, entirely vacant of students and staff. Which is a good thing, Byleth reflects as Manuela locks the doors behind them - how busy Manuela is depends entirely upon how many students are hurt. The less, the better. Wait, Byleth glances at the locked doors. Why did she do that? 

Manuela struts across the infirmary and stops to light a metal lamp with a snap of fire magic, creating a glowing orange aura that bathes the room in flickering color. She sits on a cot and stretches, lithe and sinewy, flowing.

It’s easy to see the performer in her elegance - time has not faded her looks, nor her star’s eyes. She smiles, her eyes glinting, and she drapes a leg over the cot, revealing altogether too much skin. “What do you say, you handsome knight?”

Byleth opens her mouth to speak and her brain short-circuits. She closes her mouth again, a blush creeping from her chin to her hairline, painting red across her face. She tries speaking again and nothing comes out but a hoarse “um”.

“Don’t think I didn’t see you staring at me during the meeting,” Manuela rolls over onto her stomach, swinging her legs. Her dress slides up her thigh and Byleth can see a glint of steel - a sheath of small knives. 

She stands, frozen, sweating. 

“Poor thing, you aren’t good with words, are you?” Manuela rolls again and slinks off the cot. Her heels click against the stone floor as she walks, and Byleth is thankful she doesn’t have a heartbeat, for fear of filling the silence of the infirmary with its pounding. 

Manuela drapes herself across Byleth, one arm loosely slung over her shoulder, the other reaching up to cup her face and Manuela rests her face against Byleth’s chest. 

Byleth, frozen stock-still, reaches up, risking her hands skimming the back of Manuela’s waist. She doesn’t relax into Manuela’s embrace immediately, her eyes wide and her skin still hot and flushed. “Is this...okay?” she asks.

“I was going to ask you that,” Manuela breathes into the underside of her chin. 

Byleth tips her face down, her voice low and breathy. The feeling of Manuela’s hot breath on the exposed skin of her neck makes the hairs on the back of neck prickle. “Will we get in trouble?”

Manuela laughs, her sensual facade breaking for a moment of relief. “From whom? You see the way Catherine and Shamir crawl all over each other.”

“Yes, but…” Byleth fumbles for the words, following Manuela back into the shadowed infirmary. “I’ve never…”

Manuela smiles broadly, her lips curving as she laughs. Manuela takes Byleth’s hand as she settles back onto an empty cot. “Would you prefer if I took the lead, then?” 

Byleth nods, and Manuela twirls like a dancer, standing up and switching their places, pushing Byleth down onto the bed. Byleth settles back onto her hands, the same position she had sat in outside, watching students with Manuela. 

Manuela looms over her, her frame curvy, her hair an elegant bob. Byleth can smell her - the scent of her perfume, the flowery smell of her shampoo, a hint of liquor on her breath. She leans down, cups Byleth’s chin, and kisses her.

Softly, at first, lips against soft lips, and Byleth parts her slightly, breathing in the warmth and sticky-sweetness of Manuela’s kiss. The tinge of pink-orange from her lipstick transfers to the corner of Byleth’s mouth, lipstick marks against her cheek, and then her chin, and her neck, and her collar. Manuela grasps Byleth by the lapels of her long black coat, pushing it back over her shoulders. And the fabric pools around her on the bed.

Byleth, eyes wide, watches it happen, waits for Manuela to move again. And move she does, lifting up one leg to plant it into the cot at Byleth’s side, her legs spread slightly, her dress shifting around her thighs as she does. Byleth stares at the long black heel pressing into the bed and switching her gaze back up, to the body pinning her down.

“You know,” Manuela says seductively, leaning forward. “I’m not wearing any underwear.”

“Hanneman says it’s because you don’t do your laundry.”

Manuela scowls and pulls back, tugging her dress back to cover her upper thighs. “What would that fool know?”

“I’m sorry,” Byleth lifts a hand to cover a giggle. She shifts forward. “I’ll be quiet.” 

“Much better,” Manuela says, reaching to her hip, slipping her riding crop from where she keeps it holsters under her dress. Byleth has seen her use it to point to the board, to slap students’ desks, and she can’t imagine what use Manuela foresees for it now. 

“Now,” Manuela says, sticking the tip of the crop under Byleth’s chin and tilting her face upwards. “Will you behave?”

Byleth’s scrambled fragments of brain take a moment to hold together long enough to form a coherent thought. She’s recognized that it’s a game at this point, but she doesn’t know which answer she’s supposed to give. She stares at Manuela. 

“Good girl,” Manuela says, dropping the crop from her chin. The tips of Byleth’s ears burn hot and red. “Now,” Manuela continues, tracing the tip of the riding crop down Byleth’s collarbone, and down the swell of her chest. She lets it linger in the divot between her breasts before trailing it lower, down her stomach, and then resting the tip in Byleth’s lap. 

Byleth squirms. 

“Looks like you’re quite excited,” Manuela teases, continuing to trace the contours of Byleth’s body, the evidence of her arousal beneath her black shorts. Byleth shifts uncomfortable, her shorts feeling constrictive, her tights warm and itchy. She’d give anything to peel them from her sweat-slick legs and free her skin to the air. Evidently, Manuela has something similar in mind.

“Disrobe,” she says sternly, a cross between her doctor voice and her professor voice. She taps Byleth’s shorts with two quick strikes and pulls back to allow Byleth to follow her commands. 

Byleth, blushing, reaches down to unzip the front of her shorts and slide them down her legs. They catch on the upper edges of her boots. 

Manuela’s easy smile twists into something different - something hungry, and urgent, as her gaze lingers on the lump of black panties under Byleth’s sheer tights. Byleth reaches down to untie her boots, a difficult task with her eyes locked on Manuela. 

“Keep your boots on,” Manuela commands. “You never know when a student may stop by.”

That’s the game, then. It clicks for Byleth. A strategy laid out, a counterattack. Everything is simpler that way, broken into actions, reactions, attacks, counterattacks. She hooks her fingers into the upper hem of her tights and tugs.

The sheer fabric catches on the her edge of her arousal, and already wetness pools at the tip of her panties. She twitches when Manuela touches her shoulder. 

“That will do,” she says softly, pulling her fingers up to smooth through Byleth’s long, dark hair. She pushes Byleth back, softly but firmly, easing her backwards into a laying position on the bed, and then she crawls on-top of her, resting her hands on Byleth’s heaving chest. 

“Oh, professor,” Manuela whispers as Byleth reaches up to grasp her hips. Manuela rocks against her, rubbing the fabric of her dress against the stiffness of Byleth’s cock under her panties. 

Byleth whimpers, trying to grind her hips upwards, trying to build more friction, anything to quell the ache pooling in her groin. She slips her hands under the greenish blue of Manuela’s dress, grasping her hips, fingernails into flesh, and Manuela gasps in surprise. 

“My, my, aren’t you a little forward?” she teases, bending over. With one han she cups the back of Byleth’s head, and the other she slips into the folds of her dress, her fingertips searching for Byleth’s callused knuckles. Byleth’s hands are surprisingly soft - scarred, true, and callused, but her fingers are gentle and betray a command of motion that surprises Manuela. She guides Byleth’s fingertips deeper, until Byleth brushes against soft skin and wiry hair.

Manuela dips her head low and presses her lips into Byleth’s again, kissing her deeply, parting her lips to press her tongue into the crease of Byleth’s warm mouth. Byleth responds in kind, an exploratory tongue pressing outwards, brushing against Manuela’s as her fingers explore lower. 

She brushes the soft wetness of Manuela’s arousal and she gasps into Byleth’s mouth. 

Byleth takes that as encouragement and slips her fingers against Manuela’s slick folds, exploring lower and pressing a single long finger into her, drawing a breathy gasp from Manuela’s lungs into her own mouth. She presses her finger deeper into her wetness, a double-act as the pad of her thumb presses against Manuela’s clit. 

Byleth had no experience, true, but even she was not above late-night delves into less-than-modest novels. 

Manuela groans and bucks her hips into Byleth, rubbing their bodies together as Byleth fingers her, pumping in and out, drawing a crescendo from the singer’s lips. 

“Pr-Professor,” Manuela gasps, pulling back, Byleth’s tongue lapping spit from her orange-tinged lips. “Oh, professor…”

Byleth forgoes any semblance of patient and reaches down to tug Manuela’s dress aside, baring her skin, the slick wet ness that Byleth was painting across her groin and her thighs, the soft curves of her body, cast in the orange glow of lamplight. 

Byleth grins, playful. 

“And here I thought you weren’t...ah!” Manuela’s tease is interrupted with another gasp. “-weren’t going to smile at all.” 

She traces a finger away from Byleth’s head, drawing a line between her breasts, lower, settling on the exposed patch of stomach.

“You can touch them, you know,” Manuela says, breathy. “I saw you staring.”

Byleth blushes, the red tinge doubles as Manuela reaches her hand up to snare her fingers in the cups of her dress and pull down, her voluptuous flesh spilling out against Byleth’s body. Byleth reaches a hand up to paw at her skin, to knead the hot, soft flesh. She brushes her fingertips against one of Manuela’s nipples before grabbing the breast, gently massaging her to a chorus of soft moans. 

Manuela’s hand drifts lower, her fingers snagging the hem of Byleth’s panties and tugging down, finally,  _ finally _ exposing the stiff length of her cock to the cold night air. Byleth shudders as Manuela’s hand traces down her length, cupping around her and massaging her in gentle, pulsing motions, Byleth’s own arousal acting as lubricant. 

Byleth groans, not expecting the feeling. Manuela’s long, pretty fingers draw against her skin, cool where Byleth is hot. Byleth closes her eyes and groans, twitching in Manuela’s skillfull hands.

“As, where is the brave knight now?” Manuela teases, pressing a kiss into Byleth’s chin. “A strong, handsome woman like you, so easily defeated?” 

Byleth reaches her hands up to grasp Manuela’s shoulder, pushing her over, flipping her around to mount her, and Manuela’s delighted gasp makes Byleth all the more confident in her decision. 

With Manuela on her back, Byleth grasps the hem of her dress and pushes it up, bunching it up above her breasts, leaving just about all of Manuela’s body exposed before her - her soft, heaving skin, flushed red with sweat and cast in flickering light.

Manuela spread her legs wide and Byleth presses an open palm into her groin, unfurled fingers burying into Manuela’s hair. Manuela urges her closer, wrapping her legs around Byleth’s back, tugging her against her, until the tip of her cock brushes Manuela’s wetness and they both groan. 

Byleth pushes forward, pressing her cock into the hot, wet softness between Manuela’s legs, and she bucks her hips, a steady pulsing motion as Manuela lifts a hand to cover her lips. She groans, her voice high and musical as Byleth’s steady thrusts grow in intensity. 

Byleth’s voice cracks, her own moans growing desperate and fragmented. A feeling grows in the pit of her stomach, a coiling snake, energy burning deep in her loins, desperate to burst out. Byleth reaches down and grasps Manuela’s shoulders, thrusting into her harder, harder, the feeling building, reaching a crescendo, and apex. 

The pooling warmth bursts forward, spilling out into Manuela in hot, sticky pulses. Byleth lurches forward, twitching inside her, each spasm accompanied by a throb of warmth. Manuela slings her arms around Byleth’s neck, tugging her into a kiss, a muffled groin as she twitches and squirms around Byleth. 

They stay like that for awhile, a tangle of limbs and skin and sticky satisfaction, until Manuela pulls back, her lips slipping away from Byleth’s.

“Well,” she says, breathless, satisfied. “I must say, that’s not what I was expecting.” 

Byleth pulls back, her cock still hot and sensitive, and she kneels on the cot, staring at the mess she’s made of the head physician. She still breathless and still when Manuela gathers up her dress, pulling it back down to cover her most important bits. She smiles at Byleth. “That was fun. We must do it again, sometime.”

Byleth stares at her, watching her finish tidying up her dress, pulling her white cloak over her shoulders. “Now, I’m simply famished. If you need me, I’ll be in the dining hall.” 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come say hi at @lucisevofficial.tumblr.com or @Cowboy_Sneep on twitter!


End file.
